What Happened To Flynn

By Pat Muir

Afro-American detective Shane Notfarg is assigned the case of missing man Arthur Flynn in late 2008. She hates missing man cases because the subject usually turn up alive later thus wasting time and manpower. She discovers that fellow campers stole belongings from Flynn's tent. Did they also rob him of the $10,000 he was carrying on him? But why was he carrying such a large amount of cash on him? Did he take off to avoid paying alimony to his ex-wife? That question appears answered when his car is found stripped and abandoned near the home town of one of Flynn's fellow campers. Forensics determines the trunk of the car had contained Flynn's dead body. But that fellow camper left the fishing camp after Flynn's car left the camp. The list of suspects grows when Shane discovers that Flynn had reported a money laundering operation to the Drug Enforcement Administration a few days before he went to the fishing camp. It takes Shane seven years to find out what happened to Flynn, during which time she encounters, thieves, forgers, money launderers and assassins. The ending will surprise you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pat Muir
• Release date: Dec 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9780967606040

Pat Muir

Pat Muir is a former nuclear engineer, motel operator and real estate agent. His first book, "Stories to Entertain You...If You get Bored on Your Wedding Night," was published in 1999. His second book, "The Numbers Man," published in 2010, is a romance in which he fictionalizes his experiences looking for a new (female) partner on the internet. His third book, "What Happened to Flynn," published in 2017, is a mystery novel. in which a black female detective encounters thieves, forgers, money launderers and assassins in solving a missing man case.

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CHAPTER 1

In early October, my boss, Sergeant Thompson, assigned me the missing person file on Arthur Flynn. How was I to know it would take me seven years to resolve and make me encounter thieves, forgers, money launderers and murderers? Harry, you gave me a missing person case last week, I complained. Can’t you give it to Steve?

Shane, you found that missing guy in less than two days, he replied. Steve still has one outstanding, so run with it. A backhanded compliment with a work assignment. That’s just like Harry. He turned away from my desk, clearly unwilling to hear further protests from me.

I gave the finger to his retreating back, an unprofessional act, but one that, fortunately, could not be seen from outside my office cubicle. I wanted my boss’s job when he retired in five years. Harry, Sergeant Thompson to everybody else in the group, hated me calling him by his first name, but he tolerated it since I was the only female in the group, and black as well.

Let me introduce myself. I am Shanisha Notfarg, a detective in the homicide section of the sheriff’s office in San Diego. I was and am still known as Shane, a takeoff from the 1946 movie of the same name. In that movie, Shane, the lead character, played by Alan Ladd, had remarkable speed with his gun. My reputation came from speaking quickly, especially out of turn. I came to like the name Shane so much that I have since avoided using my given name, a typical Afro-American name. It is clear I am a black American when people look at me, but do I need to advertise it? It is not that I lack pride in my black heritage; it is that I do not want my name to suggest in advance I might be poor or uneducated. I am five feet eleven, slightly overweight, divorced with one son, and keep myself fit with semi-regular visits to the gym. I have a degree in criminal justice from San Diego State University.

I was fifty-one years old when Flynn went missing. At that time, I had been a detective for ten years and had worked hard to become senior in my detail. The sheriff’s Central Investigation Division (CID) in California’s San Diego County had several units that specialized in the various types of felonies, including financial crimes, elder and child abuse, family protection, sexual assault, and murder. There were around fifty detectives in the division. I considered my homicide detail primo, one requiring more skill and persistence than other units, and one into which other detail detectives sought promotion.

The case of Flynn was one of about ten actual or potential homicide cases I handled at any one time, some of long and some of short duration. I did not work on this missing person case all the time, only intermittently as other cases came and went. I don’t like missing person cases, because, ninety percent of the time, these persons turn up in sound health, and all the effort spent trying to find them is a waste of investigative resources. Missing healthy adults do not usually stay missing for long. They go off to have an affair. They go to Las Vegas. They go off to sulk after a fight with their spouse. They disappear because they have committed a crime or because they have done something they don’t want their peers, their boss, or their spouse to find out. They disappear to escape from bill collectors or needy relatives. Missing adults simply do not get the attention that missing young children or older persons with disabilities do. I mention this so you understand why I did not hustle on the investigation of this missing man, no different from other detectives lacking enthusiasm for this type of case.

The case had been handled by an area detective called Bernard Walker at the sheriff’s station in San Marcos, a town thirty miles to the north of San Diego and the site of a state university of the same name. The case had come to the main office and me because Flynn had not been found after ten days of investigation. I poured myself a cup of coffee from the office setup and went over the case file, which Walker had prepared in a less-than-orderly fashion. He probably felt the same way about missing person cases as I did. Flynn, a real estate agent, had been reported missing by his broker, Sam Laurel, on Tuesday, September 30. Laurel had last seen Flynn on Friday, September 12, and had expected him back in the office ten days later. Laurel had given a description of Flynn: Caucasian, age fifty, sixty-nine inches tall, with a pink face, very short white hair, and glasses. The file contained a group photo of Laurel’s staff showing the missing man, an amiable smile on his face. Flynn drove a black 2005 Toyota Camry with the custom vehicle license plate MBLHM4U, which Walker had entered into the National Crime Information Center (NCIC). Flynn had driven to a fishing camp on the Russian River in Northern California on Sunday, September 14, and had left there on or before Thursday, September 18. A brochure of the camp lay in the file. The brochure showed the campground had started in the 1930s and had originally catered to people with tents or simple trailers. Over the years, electric, water and sewer lines had been added, and visitors to the camp had then arrived in motorhomes and utility equipped trailers. A cafeteria and a community center had been built in the 1960s. A water slide had been added in the 1990s. These additions had limited the area reserved for the original type of visitors to just ten spaces furthest from the entrance. Flynn had camped in one of these end spots. The word camp no longer fit in the original title of the Russian River Fishing Camp.

Sam Laurel had gone to Flynn’s home, space 74 in the Palomar South mobile home park on Grand Avenue in San Marcos, on Tuesday, September 30, had gained entry, and had found no sign of Flynn or his car. Flynn had not answered Laurel’s calls to his cell phone over the prior week. Laurel thought Flynn such a reliable agent that he’d considered his disappearance unusual and unsettling, so much so that he’d filed the missing person report the same day. Walker had repeated the steps taken by Laurel and had taken a bank statement, a telephone bill, and a charge card bill from Flynn’s home. He’d seen nothing unusual in them. He had also interviewed Flynn’s next-door neighbor, Mary Smith, and the park manager, Bert Swanson. Both had reported that Flynn had been unhappily divorced four months earlier and had had to pay significant alimony to his ex-wife, who had gone to live with Larry Swift, a wealthy man in the North San Diego County community. Walker had concluded Flynn had decided to leave on his own, but he’d found it puzzling that Flynn’s car had not been found and his cell phone was inactive. The general rule in the sheriff’s office was that if a person had not been found after being missing for more than ten days, one should consider the possibility of homicide.

I decided to repeat most of the steps taken by Walker. I phoned him to give him my name and let him know the homicide detail had been assigned the case and to ask him to relay any further information on Flynn he might subsequently receive. I too called Flynn’s phone number and got an automated response that he was unavailable and to leave a message, which I did. I called the cellular phone company servicing Flynn’s telephone and asked for the records of any calls made from July 1 to the current date. I wanted to see if there was any pattern in the phone calls, incoming or outgoing, that might tell me why Flynn had disappeared and where he might have gone to. I particularly asked for data on the cell towers pinged after he’d left for the fishing camp. The phone company did not require me to get a warrant. I then called Sam Laurel and, after introducing myself, told him I had taken over the Flynn investigation and wanted to interview him.

Is this really necessary, he said brusquely. I’ve already told the first detective everything I know.

I hate people pushing me around. I can have you brought down to our San Diego office for the interview, I replied as neutrally as possible, or would you prefer to be interviewed at your office?

There was a distinct pause and a noticeable change of voice in his reply. Well, uh…my office gets busy after nine o’clock in the morning. Could you please come tomorrow at eight sharp?

It would be a pain for me to drive to Laurel’s office twenty-five miles away at that time in the morning, but I responded to his please with I’ll be there.

I was about to hang up when Sam asked me, Have you found anything new?

No, I replied. I’ve just been assigned this case and am following up on what you told the San Marcos detective… How did you get into Flynn’s home?

A neighbor let me in.

I looked at the file. Hm. That would be Mary Smith?

That’s right. She’s next door, in space 76. She has the key to Art’s home since she’s looking after his cat.

Would she be there to let me in if I came up this afternoon?

I think so. She doesn’t work. There was a pause. "If you’re coming up this afternoon, would you prefer to interview me after all my agents have gone home instead of tomorrow morning?’

That would save me time and a trip. When are they all gone?

Probably by six.

Okay, I’ll meet you at your office at six and I’ll call you if I’m delayed. I felt pleased I had moved things along. I checked Flynn’s vehicle license with the DMV database and confirmed the accuracy of the information that had been entered into the NCIC missing vehicle database. I downloaded a copy of Flynn’s driver’s license, noting his height of sixty-nine inches and a weight of one hundred and seventy pounds. That meant a body mass index (BMI) of twenty-five, the ideal, implying Flynn to be a fit individual. My own BMI is twenty-seven, a measure I continually work on reducing. I then checked with the Vehicle Accident database for any accidents involving Flynn’s Camry and found that none had been reported. I prepared an affidavit justifying why I needed to enter Flynn’s home and examine his bank and charge card accounts. I filled the search warrant form accompanying the affidavit and had Robert Neill, the district attorney (DA) representative attached to my unit, look it over. I drove to the downtown courthouse to get a judge to approve the warrant, and I noticed the street sign outside the CID had been vandalized. It should have read Cope St., but somebody had painted over the E. I kind of liked working on Cop St., but the word would eventually get around to city maintenance, and the correct name would be restored a few months later. It was and still is a source of amusement to most of us to determine if we are coping or copping. The judge I reached had no problem coping with my search warrant request.

I returned to CID and phoned the Russian River fishing camp and spoke to its manager, Tom Small, making him aware I was recording the conversation, as I do with all sources of information.

Art’s been a regular visitor to our camp for quite a few years, volunteered Tom.

When did he arrive, and when did he leave? I asked

I told the other officer before, replied Tom. Art arrived on Sunday, September 14. He paid with his charge card for a week. He didn’t get his charge card receipt on his departure, so I’m not exactly sure when he left. When I went to check that some adjacent tenters had left as scheduled on the following Thursday, Art had already gone… That would be September 18.

So, neither you nor any of your assistants saw him leave?

That’s right.

Did he arrive or leave with anybody? I asked, realizing the latter part of the question was irrelevant.

Let me see. I could hear Tom talking to his assistant. Terry says he came alone, said Tom a minute later.

I see. Did you hear of anything unusual at the camp during that period?

Not really. Much of the camp is taken with motor homes whose owners are quite demanding. The end of the camp where Art was has no utility connections and is meant primarily for people with tents or trucks with just a camper top. The only thing down there during that week was a dispute between a couple of campers about colliding fishing lines. It did not involve Art.

Okay. I have a brochure of the camp, but I need more information. Could you please send me a detailed map of that end of the camp with each site labeled and the data you have on each camper and his vehicle there from…say, September 9 through September 18… Let me give you my e-mail address.

I also gave Tom my phone number, asking him to call me if he thought of anything relevant. I called Flynn’s cell phone once more and again received no answer. I grabbed a burger and a coffee at a nearby McDonald’s and headed up Highway 15, where a hot Santa Anna wind pummeled the car. Then it was on to Highway 78, which I hated since it became busier each year as the student population of San Marcos State University grew. I turned off the freeway, driving south to the Palomar South mobile home park in San Marcos. I wanted to talk first to Bert Swanson, the park manager, since park managers in general are gossip gatherers. They can tell me if rent is past due, if tenants have drug or alcohol problems or debilitating illnesses, or are faithless husbands or wives. More importantly, managers retain applications for tenancy that contain background information on park tenants.

Mobile home parks are often perceived as places full of trailers that can be pulled behind cars. They are nothing of the sort. The trailer mobility has long since gone. They are factory-built units constructed to meet the criteria of the Housing and Community Development (HCD) agency of California. They are brought down on wheels with specialized trucks to the park and then mounted on jacks or more permanent foundations. The wheels are frequently sold. Thus, the word mobile for such parks is a misnomer. These parks in north San Diego County were constructed when land was cheap, being distant from the core city, and cities have since grown up around them. The parks now occupy prime property, and the landowners would be better off financially if they could get rid of the renters and sell the land for redevelopment. The residents have fought back, some by getting their cities to enact protective ordinances and some by buying the land for themselves. Palomar South remained one where the mobile home owners paid a monthly rent.

CHAPTER 2

I was grateful to find the park office air-conditioned since the outside temperature had reached ninety-three degrees. Inside sat a woman behind the reception desk, a very ugly woman, about sixty, with an ill-fitting wig, overweight, with smudged lipstick, poorly applied makeup, and dressed in a gaudy Hawaiian muumuu. She scowled at me. I am used to being scowled at by white women since I am black, well dressed, and have a life. I introduced myself, saying I needed to see Bert Swanson. The ugly woman got up from the desk and said, I’ll get my husband.

Bert Swanson emerged from a rear office, a short man, smaller than his wife, completely bald, casually dressed, a grimace on his face. I figured him to have a perpetual grimace on his face. Bert motioned me into the back office and offered me a seat. I heard Art Flynn went missing, he remarked. I haven’t seen him since he paid his September rent.

Do you have any idea why he might want to disappear?

Well, I’d heard he was upset that his wife divorced him. That shouldn’t have bothered him too much, though. He had his way with a lot of women around the park.

Did I detect a note of jealousy? So, you reckon his getting divorced might have been sufficient reason for him to want to leave the park?

It probably was. But it wouldn’t surprise me also if he promised some women more than he could deliver.

What do you mean by that?

That he promised to marry them.

Could you give me their names?

Swanson hesitated. I don’t really know anyone in particular. It was just well known in the park that Art Flynn was a womanizer. He paused and raised his head. You could ask Eleanor Bratz in number 77.

I made a mental note to talk to her before asking, Has he been a bad tenant?

Swanson swallowed. No, he pays his rent regularly. It’s just that I don’t like to see somebody upsetting the other tenants.

And you think he upset them.

Yes, I think so.

I could see Swanson did not like Flynn and had little further information on the missing man. He confirmed Sam Laurel had called him and he too had gone to Flynn’s home and found nobody there.

How did you get in?

His neighbor, Mary Smith in Number 76, let me in. She has a key since she’s looking after his cat.

What happens if Flynn doesn’t return to pay his rent? Isn’t his October rent due?

Yes. It is. I’ve already mailed him a formal notice about it; I also posted it on his door when I went to check on him. If I don’t hear from him shortly, I’ll have to turn the matter over to our attorney.

And then?

We would go to court to get a judgment allowing us to file a lien against Flynn’s mobile home. Eventually, there would be sheriff’s sale of the home.

Would that be to anybody’s advantage?

Nobody would want to get rid of Flynn just to take his mobile home. It’s an older singlewide. The park owner would buy it, have it removed, and install a newer, fourteen-foot-wide unit and either sell that or rent it out. He would make more money than he’s getting from Flynn.

You would get a commission for that sale or rental?

Swanson shrugged. If I got the listing, then, yeah, I guess I would.

I felt the need to butter up Swanson, so I asked him how long he had been manager of the Palomar South mobile home park. Twenty years, he told me. It was the first property my nephew bought.

Your nephew?

Yes, Larry Swift, the owner, is my nephew.

So that was how Swanson got the job of park manager. That was also why he knew about Flynn being unhappy that his ex-wife had left him for a wealthier man. No wonder Flynn was angry at having to pay alimony. I told Swanson I wanted to question a few neighbors of Flynn and asked for the owner names. He wrote the names and space numbers on a piece of paper from memory. I asked for a copy of Flynn’s application to rent in the park, which he had Mrs. Swanson prepare. I smiled at her as I left. Her scowl did not change.

I knocked on the entry door of the mobile home at space 77, which belonged to Eleanor Bratz. I wanted to know what she thought about Flynn. Perhaps she had captured him like the novelist in Stephen King’s novel Misery and was forcibly persuading him to marry her now that he was divorced. My imagination was running wild; it would make a fascinating story, one I could write about and become famous. No one answered my repeated knocking, so I left my business card at the driveway side-entry door, the one more frequently used. An elderly man with a sour look on his face from the home next door pointed to the red-painted shallow curb on that side of the road, thus suggesting I move my car to guest parking one hundred yards up the street. I nodded my head politely at him and instead drove my car into the empty driveway of space 74. That space contained Flynn’s mobile home, an old, forty-foot-long Bramble singlewide. An adjacent steep bank had squeezed his site, so unlike other homes in the park, it had a driveway immediately adjacent to the driveway of his neighbor in 76. The home’s only door was on the side of the driveway where I had parked my car. A green, handicap-equipped GMC van stood in the immediate neighbor’s driveway.

I walked up a wheelchair ramp and knocked on the door of 76, and a woman in her late thirties, about sixty-eight inches tall, with shoulder-length, reddish-brown hair and a good figure for her age, came to the door. She wore a faded yellow top over well-worn jeans, and she offered a warm smile as I introduced myself. I’m Sheriff Detective Notfarg investigating your missing neighbor, Arthur Flynn. You are Mary Smith?

Yes, she replied. I spoke to a detective before. You’ve heard from Art, then?

No, but I’d like to talk to you about him. May I come in?

Would you mind if we talk in Art’s home? My husband is sleeping.

I nodded my assent and added, I understand you have the key to Mr. Flynn’s home and are looking after his cat.

Yes, she said, producing a key from her jeans. He’s been paying me twenty dollars a day to look after it. As we walked across the dual driveways, a gust of hot wind lifted Mary’s hair, revealing a long neck. No wrinkles yet. They’ll come in time, like mine. I looked in Flynn’s mailbox and found it empty.

I’ve been emptying it ever since Art left on his trip, offered Mary. I’m worried since he said he would be home on the twenty-first.

Well, how much money did he give you since he hasn’t returned on schedule?

Mary appeared surprised at the question. Well, he gave me a check for four hundred dollars, but that was also to fully clean his home and wash all his clothes and linens. I actually haven’t cashed it yet.

You’d better do it soon in case his bank account is closed.

I made some mental calculations. Four hundred dollars for the complete cleaning of the home and washing and ironing of his clothes and the rest for looking after the cat. That meant he wasn’t planning to be away for much more than ten days. We entered Flynn’s home, extraordinarily neat for a man and immaculately clean. I remarked on it as a long-haired ginger cat wandered up to me and rubbed itself against mine and then Mary’s legs. Flynn’s home had a kitchen, living room, and one bedroom, which was large enough for him to have installed a desk and tower computer in addition to the usual bedroom furniture. I looked through the stack of mail that Mary had piled on the desk—a credit card bill, a bill for television and internet service, bills for phone and electric service, Swanson’s late rent notice, and two dozen charity solicitations. There were two letters, which I opened and read. They thanked Art Flynn for past sales service. Nothing from debt collectors. No suicide or other personal note. The waste bucket stood empty. I tagged the address book on the desk and put it into an evidence bag I had brought in from my car. I could see no house phone, typical of realtors. A framed photograph of a man, a beautiful woman, and a little girl featured prominently on the desk.

Mary saw me looking at it and said, That’s Art, Marge, and Sally. Marge is Art’s ex-wife.

And Sally’s his daughter?

No. Sally is Marge’s daughter from her first marriage. A lovely little girl who Art simply adores.

I took the photo out of its frame, tagged it, and put it in the evidence bag. I opened the two-drawer file adjacent to the desk. It contained copies of listings and closed transactions. One file was marked personal. It contained the title to his mobile home and his car, an insurance policy on the car, a trust document, an accidental life insurance policy, and a four-year-old letter containing effusive handwritten thanks in immaculate penmanship for selling the writer’s mobile home. I turned on the computer and stared around the room as it booted up. Mary sat down in a side chair, watching me. The computer did not require a password for access. I opened up the word processing program and checked the latest documents written. Most of them had a business character. I noticed one letter written in late August to a Mrs. Marjorie Flynn at the Bangor Nursing Home. I took down the address. We went into the living room and sat down. The cat jumped on my lap and began to purr.

That’s unusual for Ginger. She prefers men, said Mary with another smile.

I did not take it as a compliment and brushed the cat off. I don’t need cat hairs on my pantsuit. When did you last see Mr. Flynn? I asked.

The afternoon before he left.

What day was that?

Saturday. She glanced at a calendar on the wall. That would be September 13.

Did he seem worried about anything?

No. Art is a very calm, easygoing character, kind to neighbors…and cats. She smiled.

Can you think of any reason why he might want to disappear?

Well, he was very disappointed that his wife, Marge, divorced him and obtained a court judgment for alimony even though she is now living with Larry Swift. He’s the owner of this park, you know. But worse for poor Art is that he didn’t get visitation rights to Sally. When he and Marge were married, Art did not or was not allowed to adopt her, so that’s why he has no rights to see her.

When did the divorce finalize?

About four months ago. But Marge started living with Swift over a year ago. She started working in the park office when Mrs. Swanson was sick. I believe she had to start working because Sally was diagnosed with leukemia and they needed money to pay for her oncology treatment. Art told me that he didn’t have a health insurance policy. He himself is very fit.

Do you think this divorce settlement was enough for Mr. Flynn to want to run away?

I wouldn’t think so. Art has since continued his work of selling mobile homes and seems as congenial as ever.

Do you know if he goes to casinos or gambles online?

I don’t think so. Art appears careful with his money. He’s not the type to take risks.

Do you know what he does for recreation?

He goes fishing locally fairly often. I think he plays canasta on the computer, and I know he writes letters to his mother in a nursing home in Maine. He also plays cards each Wednesday evening with Charlie Jones in the park. He sometimes goes to the movies with a guy from the office, and he occasionally takes me since Bob, my husband, is too sick to do so.

You seem to know Art pretty well…better than I would expect from most neighbors.

Mary seemed a little flustered and waved her head before she spoke. I have a personal situation. My husband, Bob, is very concerned about his medical bills since he has emphysema and chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. He’s not old enough for Medicare, and his pension was reduced when his former employer went bankrupt. It makes him quite frugal, and so he keeps me on a very limited household budget. He’s quite sick, so I have to stay close to home in order to nurse him. I confided that to Art, and he started giving me money to wash his clothes and clean his house. I therefore see him much more than any regular neighbor. He is such a decent man that I feel sorry for what has happened to him. You know, he personally built the ramp we have for Bob’s wheel chair. He’s very popular in the park. He has been involved in the sale or purchase of many of the homes in the park. I know he does a good job, because I hear that from other people.

He sold you your mobile home, then?

No, Bob and I came to the park before Art did. At that time, Art wasn’t married, and many of the single women in the park wanted to hook up with him.

Like Eleanor Bratz?

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Who told

Reviews for What Happened To Flynn

[John bushe · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

What a brain the author must have to write this book .Was she ever in the police force? She seems to know everything they need to convict someone .JB